“Art,” he had said, “is unguessable” and it remained unguessable. But, “she’s not awakened yet,” he thought, and hoped for a time when her voice would be more than well-produced.
It lacked color, warmth, feeling, but she was young and, meanwhile, he was doing his possible. It was the hardest thing to keep her back from public trial, both because of the girl herself and because of Tom Bradshaw, who was paying half her costs and didn’t share Walter’s faith. But they must wait, they must all wait, and if two years were not long enough they must wait longer.
Mr. Pate, who looked upon her as the great servant he would give to music, was screened away in the judges’ box: Mr. Chown, who looked upon her as an income, watched Mary Ellen take her cloak from a long row hanging on the wall and go towards the stairs she had just descended.
Evidently, she was for a breath of air and he thought it would be a shrewd air on his bare head, but the opportunity of private conversation was too good to be missed and he awaited her return at the foot of the stair.
“Oh, you are going out?” he said. “So’m I. It’s hot in here.” He modified the Gallicism of his bow.
“Yes,” she said, consenting to his escort. She knew, better than he did, that the sort of boisterous crowd which awaits the declaration of an election result was assembled round the Drill Hall; it would be convenient to have this big man with her to shoulder a way through it.
Their clothes stamped them as competitors and the crowd gave passage. Evening dress was licensed in Staithley that night, but his arm was agreeably protective till they were through the crush; then he withdrew it.
“I’m glad to be out of that,” he said.
“There’s too much crowd to-night,” said Mary Ellen.
“Ah, you feel that, do you?”